


to the victor, the spoils

by astrogeny



Category: Fire Emblem: Kakusei | Fire Emblem: Awakening
Genre: F/M, Femdom, Maid dress, fingerbanging, the most outrageously self-indulgent het i've ever written
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-01
Updated: 2014-11-01
Packaged: 2018-02-23 10:49:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2544842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/astrogeny/pseuds/astrogeny
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He takes her in, black trousers tight in the hips, a green vest, she wears green because she is a huntress, Owain thinks, and he wants to murmur it in the space between their lips that Noire has already closed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	to the victor, the spoils

**Author's Note:**

  * For [R_Vienna](https://archiveofourown.org/users/R_Vienna/gifts).



> or: noire fucks owain while he wears a maid dress for angie’s birthday. i’ve been wanting to write this 5ever b/c noire domming owain is what i wake up for in the mornings, and they absolutely 100% have ridiculously intricate larp sex that noire unironically is into, even if owain ends up getting so engrossed in the story that they don’t actually ever get around to the sex half the time.

"So," Noire begins, "When we left off last, I defeated you in mortal combat, right? But before I landed the final blow, I offered to make a bargain with you instead, in exchange for your life?" Owain has always appreciated Noire’s dedication to his continuities, even the ones he never chronicles on paper. He nods proudly.

  
"Correct! And so tonight, the hero must pay his dues to the Crepuscular Queen of the She-Demons, for so has he sworn upon his very sword hand to grant her any boon of her choosing!" Owain waggles his eyebrows suggestively; Noire giggles into her hand. Her smiles are less abashed these days, and they reach her eyes more easily.

  
"Yes, well, when the hero said he’d pay his dues, I didn’t quite imagine it like—like this." She gestures vaguely at Owain’s attire—a black maid’s dress, sweetheart neckline cut low, ruffles at the ends of puffed sleeves, and a rather improprietously short skirt made full by several layers of petticoats that, frankly, chafe Owain’s thighs terribly. He personally considers the white stockings held up by slim garters to be an inspired touch on his part, even if his worn old boots cramp the image’s style a bit.

  
"You don’t like it?" he asks, dropping character and knowing she won’t remark on that.

  
"No, no!" Noire rushes to assure him. "It’s just, where did you even find something like that? I’m fairly sure I’ve never seen a real maid wear that kind of outfit."

  
"I’m also fairly sure real maids shave their legs," Owain quips, winning him another giggle, "Alas, time is as always any man’s greatest foe, and I’d never hear the end of it if anyone caught me doing it. As to where I got it, well, suffice to say that the quest was one undertaken in the deepest shadows, executed with such precision that not a soul shall ever know what has been pilfered from beneath their very noses."

  
"You…stole it from the supply train?"

  
"Hey, you’d be surprised, the kinds of things people keep in there." Part of him is really wishing she’d suspend her disbelief here, though he knows she’s always sincere about their sweeping saga for the ages (also a saga for nobody else but them to ever find out about, ever).

  
"That’s certainly something," remarks Noire, and from the way her eyes slide down his body, Owain isn’t entirely sure she’s talking about the means by which he obtained his attire. He clears his throat very, very deliberately.

  
"Anyhow!" and it comes out a bit more emphatically than he’d meant for it to, "Humbled, the hero steps forth to grant the queen of night and starlight herself her boon—and that would be?" Noire smiles again.

  
"You," she says with a delivery that does Owain’s performer’s heart proud, "You, and only you."

  
She reaches him in only a few short strides, he lets her take him about the waist, pull him close. Noire is stronger than she looks, as Owain runs his hands appreciatively along her upper arms. He takes her in, black trousers tight in the hips, a green vest, she wears green because she is a huntress, Owain thinks, and he wants to murmur it in the space between their lips that Noire has already closed. He exhales hard through his nose at her kiss, leaning into her body appreciatively. She bites at his lower lip, carnivorous, her tongue is in his open mouth with a confidence that makes Owain shiver. One of Noire’s hands wanders from the small of his back, fingers brushing against the bare backs of his thighs, dipping beneath the hem of one stocking and tracing aimless patterns against his skin. They pull apart with a collective gasp and there is steel in Noire’s eyes—no, flint, he thinks, flint like an arrowhead, and gods does she cut him to the quick.

  
"Turn around for me?" Noire breathes, and Owain spins so smartly on his heel that he doubts even Frederick could find fault in it. Her arms come around him again from behind, palms flat against his stomach, breasts pressed against his back. Again, she moves down his body with the patience of a huntress gauging her prey, pointedly avoiding the already embarrassingly prominent press of his erection through his skirts. She touches the insides of his thighs instead, pressing kisses down along the shell of his ear and over to the line of his jaw as she goes.

  
"This is," Owain begins, prosaic coherence already a bit beyond him, "This is some vengeance you’re exacting, here." Noire hooks a finger under one of the garters and snaps it against his thigh, Owain makes what is possibly the most undignified sound to ever exit a human mouth.

  
"I don’t know about vengeance," demurring, easing the sting on his skin without giving him what he’s aching for, "But since you owe me, you can lift that skirt up." He complies in absolute record time, bunching the fabric in his fists and trying not to look too desperate in the face of his victorious nemesis, who may or may not have already abandoned the scenario entirely in favor of pulling his underwear down as far as it can go before it’s caught by the garters. "Don’t let it drop, okay?" Some sort of assenting noise makes its way out of Owain’s mouth, not quite a moan but approaching the territory of one with an alarming speed. Noire’s hand wraps around his cock and he swears he can feel it in every inch of his body.

  
"I see you’ve, you’ve, you’ve taken ahold of my most secret and arcane blade, that can only ever respond to, ah, to your touch, and," he’s gasping for it, head lolling back against Noire’s shoulder as she strokes him. They stand at eye level with one another, but she feels much taller now, her lips playing at his neck now, going in for the kill.

  
"Owain?" she cuts him off simply, "Maybe you should just—just stop narrating now?" If he had any coherency left with which to respond, it vaporizes instantly into a full-out whine when Noire thumbs at the slit of his cock. Owain’s whole body arches up to meet her, she could bend him and string him like a bow and he’d thank her for it, her fingers are slick with his precome and his knuckles are white from clenching the skirts so tightly. Noire’s other hand roams up his chest, right over his hammering heartbeat, his ears are ringing even though the only sound in the room is his ragged breathing. He’s so close, he has a thousand exaltations for her that only leave his lips as strangled moans—and just like that, Noire stops.

  
"The table," her voice not so steady now, he has no idea what this means or why it’s in the way of his orgasm until Noire indicates the collapsible camp table in the corner of his tent. "Over the table," she repeats, and the two of them stumble towards it, barely willing to part, knocking over a whetstone that at least has the fortuity not to land on Owain’s foot and completely ruin the moment. Noire searches about the desk’s cluttered surface with her free hand until Owain’s thoroughly addled mind manages to connect the dots, and he hands her a small vial—blade polish, he remembers lying to his mother. Blade polish, for, you know, the most sacred upkeep of blessed steel, which is to say two of Noire’s frantically-slicked fingers entering him at once, though not deep. She stretches him instead, one finger pushing, the other dragging just in and out of him, pressing and teasing in response to the absolute nonsense he’s babbling now. Her other hand leaves his cock to steady his hips, and he is about to whine in protest until her fingers re-enter him in earnest, one quick thrust that leaves pinpricks at the edges of his vision. Owain wants to ask her if she’s certain she’s a preacher’s daughter, because she is doing something absolutely unholy inside him right now, but he can’t seem to string together anything beyond a please, Noire, gods, please. "Oh, you can, uh, you can touch yourself now," Noire breathes, she’s rolling her hips against him like she’s fucking him and he’s not sure if he wants her to or if he’s got his hands full enough with what she’s giving him already.

  
Owain fumbles beneath the petticoats to jerk himself off with nothing even resembling coherency, trying all at once to thrust into his own hand and roll back into Noire’s fingers, three of them now, she kisses down his neck to the part of his back that the dress leaves exposed, right between his shoulder blades. The table’s edge presses hard against his stomach from their combined weight, clear and keen, and he comes with a strangled shout entirely unbefitting a hero who is supposed to be unshakeable in distress. His ears ring like he’s underwater, Noire’s breathing behind him sounds loud and muffled all at once. The skirt is fine, Owain thinks dimly, but the petticoats have made a noble sacrifice in the interests of the latest installment in this particular saga. Looking at Noire, the color is high in her cheeks, she worries at her full lower lip with her front teeth in a way that tells Owain exactly what she wants.

  
"Your orders," he manages, "Mistress?" Noire laughs abashedly at the title, as much as she seems sincerely flattered by it.

  
"On your knees," she gasps, and he is there before the breath leaves his lips, worshipful.


End file.
